


Trekka

by hybridshade (shimyaku)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angsty Schmoop, Banter, Biting, Bruises, Community: salt_burn_porn, Established Relationship, M/M, Male Slash, Marking, Masochism, Overprotective, Painplay, Protective Dean Winchester, Rough Sex, Season/Series 08, Secrets, Twisted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 03:29:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shimyaku/pseuds/hybridshade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean thinks he's hiding something, but Sam just knows him too well</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trekka

**Title:** Trekka  
 **Author:** [](http://hybridshade.livejournal.com/profile)[**hybridshade**](http://hybridshade.livejournal.com/)  
 **Pairing:** Sam/Dean  
 **Rating:** nc17  
 **Warnings:** general season 8 spoilers, somewhat masochistic!Dean, painplay, marking, bruising  
 **Word count:** 2250~  
 **Summary:** Dean thinks he's hiding something, but Sam just knows him too well  
 **A/N:** written for [](http://salt-burn-porn.livejournal.com/profile)[**salt_burn_porn**](http://salt-burn-porn.livejournal.com/) for [](http://verucasalt123.livejournal.com/profile)[**verucasalt123**](http://verucasalt123.livejournal.com/)'s prompt 'my perfect little punching bag'. This was the first thing that came to mind so I just went with it! Also, title, cut text and prompt are all nicked from Puscifer. Now it's nearly 6am and I'm deaddd.

 

 

Sam doesn’t know when it started exactly. A month maybe? Six weeks? Could it be that long?

He should’ve seen it coming to be honest, but he’s been too worried about his own ass lately and who could really blame him? The trials, the spitting blood, Cas and Kevin and Dean being an douche. The latter takes up enough of his time as it is.

They’ve been filling their ‘between’ time with chasing small fries in nearby states, and though they’ve managed to gank quite a few sons of bitches of late, Sam couldn’t say for sure who the ventures are really benefiting. Sure, they’ve restored various people’s attics and basements back to normal, which is always a good thing, de-shiftered a couple of sewer lines, yet another good thing, but Sam’s overactive brain has barely been occupied enough to distract him from his ongoing worries, and Dean’s taken more than one headshot which he’s had to nurse with continuous ice packs.

Neither of those injuries should’ve happened, and the more the thinks about it the more he’s unsure how exactly Dean’s head got in the way of those particular blows. But he chalks it up to Dean’s pathological big brother complex and his idiotic willingness to jump in front of Sam at any given moment of a fight, his contentment with whatever injuries he as to absorb so long as Sam’s okay. It’s been that way forever – Sam thinks he ought to be used to it. Even when they fuck Dean is almost always on the receiving end, and while it’s kinda ridiculous, Sam can’t help but associate this fact with his brother’s incessant need to protect him.

So yeah, they’ve been fucking for a while now. Years. He thinks he remembers it changing around Dean’s pre-Hell year, it definitely got more intense sometime around then, but it’s one of those things that he decided wasn’t so important so he can’t be sure of exact dates. Their libidos are always up and down, usually correlating to their fluxing state of imminent death. They’ve gone a year or more with barely a stray touch – generally attributed to occupational hazard – but then they’ll suddenly be together again and something will always ‘click’ and they’ll be back at it like rabbits. Like a broken record.

Fucked up lives, fucked up bedfellows, fucked up intentions. It all goes hand-in-hand where they’re concerned, but they’ve come to terms with that. They’ve had to.

So when Sam poked his head around the door of Dean’s room in the bunker, it didn’t immediately raise any alarms. It was a sight he’d seen more times than he could count – Dean sitting on the bed in his underwear, stitching up a wound on his own abdomen. Been there, done that, a thousand times over.

It’s just that there were about a dozen more healing cuts and bruises present that Sam didn’t recall seeing before, and it occurred to him that he hadn’t seen his brother naked for a month or more – pretty unusual for them, considering. They’d last fucked a couple of weeks back, riding the adrenaline high after giving some nasty old ghost the salt ‘n’ burn treatment, but there’d been no skin involved, just Sam pushing Dean down over the hood of the Impala and yanking his jeans down just enough to shove his cock in.

Odd that it had been going on so long without him noticing, but once he pondered it Sam had to admit that yes, Dean had been taking the punches for him even more than normal. It made his jaw clench that Dean had been trying to take everything into his own hands again, but more so that he’d failed to realise. It just wasn’t acceptable.

“Funny, I don’t remember you getting stabbed,” Sam made his presence known, stepping into Dean’s room and stalking over to the bed, “Or punched between the ribs, or scratched down your side.”

Dean had the decency to look a mite guilty, but that’s as far as it went. He wouldn’t meet Sam’s eyes, and he focussed his attention on tying off a final stitch. “Just a flesh wound. Probably didn’t even need stitching but just to be safe, y’know?”

“If you managed to fit six stitches in then I think it probably needed it, _Dean_.”

“What’re you getting shirty with me for?” Dean finally looked at him, or glared more like, his defiance building by the second. “Comes with the job, you know that. Not like it’s serious.”

Sam grabbed at his brother’s shoulder with purpose, the subsequent swallow of a pained moan not going unnoticed. “Not serious, huh? Well that’s good to know. I’d hate to think you were badly injured without my knowing, not that it would impede your capacity to fight or anything, right?”

Dean’s eyes bugged as he squeezed down harder on his shoulder and Dean let go a wheezy breath. A hand came up to grab at Sam’s wrist and attempt to pry him away but Sam held firm, urging his brother to see the futility of the situation. They were simply too close, knew each other too well to ever get away with secrets for very long. You’d think they would’ve figured it out by now, yet both of them went on as they ever did.

“Sammy,” Dean relented, grappling with Sam’s arm to try and push him away. He had a desperate shine to his eyes that made Sam begin to worry, but before he could call him out on it Dean started to ramble.

“Please, you have to let me do this, Sammy. We’re gonna actually try to live through this one remember? And I’m gonna do everything I can to make that happen, but the fact it’s you doing the tasks? It fucking _kills_ me. I just need to be doing someth-”

“So, what,” Sam interrupted, attempting to get a grasp on what Dean was really trying to say, “You’re trying to achieve some kind of physical demise to mirror your internal one, is that it? Despite your grand intentions to live?”

Dean didn’t outright deny the claim. But his eyes were imploring Sam to see and understand – which he did, of course. His big brother was such a physical creature, reliant upon actions rather than words, so when it came to emotional pain, his only outlets were of the visceral sort. Sex, getting wasted, going hell for leather against some monster-of-the-week that wasn’t worth the effort just for the mere fun of it. It was the path he always took when things got too much, and he was taking a merry stroll down said path yet again.

And all for Sam. Because when it came to the trials there was nothing else Dean could do for him right now. Because taking Sam’s share of the punches was the _least_ he could do. At this rate, by the time Sam reached the next trial he wasn’t going to have a scratch on him, and somehow that just didn’t sit right.

“You gonna wrap me in cotton wool, then?” Sam accused, “Fight all my battles for me? Put the prize in my hand at the end and say how great I did?”

“If I have t-”

“Fuck you, Dean. I thought we’d gotten past this. I thought you understood that I wanted to do this. That I was doing this for _us_.”

Sam pushed Dean backward with considerable force, his hand aiming squarely at the bruise centralised on his chest. His brother landed back on the mattress with a sharp intake of breath, his arms rising up protectively. Grabbing him by the wrists, Sam lunged forward to pin the limbs above Dean’s head, bringing him to a kneeling position on the bed where one knee had unexpectedly wedged itself between Dean’s legs. His brother froze, clearly unsure how this was going to play out.

“Sammy?” he gasped, “You gonna-?”

“If I have to,” Sam mocked, urging his knee forward until he got an undignified squeak from Dean’s mouth. He used his free hand to skim down the expanse of his brother’s chest, investigating each injury as he went. He probed at each wound in turn, paying attention to every move and sound Dean made and thereby gauging just how bad they really were. The bruise in the centre of his chest was probably the worst of them, but there was a graze Sam discovered just above the waistband of Dean’s underwear that spanned down over the bend of his hip, and in deciding to ignore the initial intention of his actions, Sam poked and prodded at the injury until he had Dean squirming into a frenzy.

“You… You… Don’t-,” Dean panted, his knees knocking awkwardly at his side.

“Don’t what? Don’t stop? I don’t intend to,” Sam said with a wicked grin. “How did you get this one anyway? You got thrown into a table last week, was that it? Rather precarious position to get jabbed with a slab of wood…”

No longer able to deny what direction things were heading in, Sam backed off long enough to tug away Dean’s underwear and retrieve the lube from the bedside table before resuming his previous position. Now that his brother was bared to him completely, Sam could see the full extent of the bruise he’d been happily toying with – it wasn’t quite as bad as he’d thought, but with a little care and attention, Dean could be feeling it for weeks.

Bending down, Sam took the flesh between his teeth, nipping and pulling to the sound of Dean’s desperate gasps. He kept at it until the overlaying skin was red and sore, only then did he pull back to get a better look, taking pleasure in the sight of his brother’s flushed, hard cock lying flat against his stomach, a small puddle of pre-come pooling at the tip. Scant inches away was the gash Dean had been stitching up just minutes earlier, and Sam turned his attentions there, using his thumb to circle the wound, pressing at the slightly swollen flesh and relishing his brother’s mixed reactions of pain and pleasure – his legs curling up in recoil from the pain, his dick visibly throbbing from the pleasure.

“I-if you insist on p-poking me,” Dean stuttered, his eyes heavy-lidded and blown wide with arousal, “I can think of a much b-better place for you to poke.”

Sam reached up for a quick, hard kiss, briefly sucking on Dean’s bottom lip, before he removed his hands and reached for the lube. “Aw, you’re no fun,” he teased, wasting no time in squeezing out some of the cool gel onto his hand and plunging two fingers in without preamble. He scissored and stretched the ring of muscle as always, backed by the soundtrack of Dean’s impatient groans, and next thing he knew he was being kicked in the kidney by a rogue foot.

“Fuckin’ hurry up. I’m ready already.”

With a smirk, Sam threw off his shirt and pushed his pants down just enough to pull his cock out, leisurely slicking it up with lube. He grabbed at Dean’s left leg and pushed it up towards his chest, consequently compressing the growing bruise on his hip and causing Dean to let go a sharp cry. With his other hand Sam lined himself up with his brother’s hole and pushed smoothly all the way inside, Dean’s body swallowing him up like a dream.

“Shit, you’re always so ready for me,” he panted, taking but a moment to slide back before driving in again. Dean's ass was like a hot mouth, warm and wet and greedily eating him up. He took Sam’s considerable length like it was nothing, like he was made for it, and Sam concluded – not for the first time – that it was no coincidence.

“Sammy, fuck, gonna… I’m gonna…”

Dean had taken his own cock in hand by that stage and was jacking it at twice the speed of Sam’s thrusts – already so close to the edge. Sam’s own need for release was beginning to coil up in his belly like a tight spring, and he increased the pace of his hips, the frantic smack of his and his brother’s skins echoing through the room. All it took was the barest of pressures against the cut in Dean’s side and he was _gone_ , his head arching back and sticky globs of come landing over his chest and stomach.

The heat around Sam’s cock clenched down like a vise, sucking him in deep, and more quickly than he’d anticipated he was falling down weak onto his elbows, his climax pulled from him like a punch to the gut. He wasn’t sure how long he drifted for after that, but he opened his eyes to the vision of his brother wiping his chest over and throwing the tissues carelessly to the side, his gaze wavering a moment before he finally looked up to lock eyes with Sam.

One look said everything he needed to hear right then, and he reluctantly pulled out from Dean’s body, dropping heavily onto the mattress. Sam kicked his sweat-laden jeans and underwear the rest of the way off and curled around his brother’s side, fingering lightly at the collage of wounds across his torso.

“Y’know, if you’re gonna get marked up all the time, I’d much rather it was me doing it, not some bitch spirit throwing you into a wall or whatever.”

Dean huffed a laugh. “Sammy, you always say the nicest things.”

Sam kicked him, deciding he'd taken enough punches for the day.


End file.
